


Another Season's Promise

by remiges



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 11:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14236746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/pseuds/remiges
Summary: If Mitch sort of, maybe, possibly made out with his two best friends at a party where everyone, including him, was super wasted, is there a manual for that? Because he's kind of freaking out.





	Another Season's Promise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somehowunbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/gifts).
  * Inspired by [when september rolls around](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5953774) by [somehowunbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken). 



> Title from [The Field Behind the Plow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUM8mXJre1c) by Stan Rogers to pay homage to the original fic's title. The boys all go to the University of Minnesota instead of the University of Michigan, because when I was reading Mitch's wiki page to find out which school had offered him a scholarship I had a critical reading comprehension failure. /0\ AU! *throws confetti*
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic, somehowunbroken! Thanks for submitting it to be remixed.

Mitch gets up at an ungodly hour, mildly hungover and regretting everything that's led him to this point in his life. He still has to finish up an essay that's due at noon—read: write the last three pages and edit the whole thing—but he keeps getting stuck on last night. If Mitch sort of, maybe, possibly made out with his two best friends at a party where everyone, including him, was super wasted, is there a manual for that? Because he's a couple of hours away from going on a road trip with them to see Jack present a paper at a history symposium in Indianapolis, and he's kind of freaking out.

Mitch feels like he should get to blame Domi because it was his party, but it was almost spring break—unfinished essay notwithstanding—and Mitch has no one to blame but himself. There'd been music and booze, and he remembers doing body shots off Dylan, and then Connor doing shots off him, and then making out for a little while pressed together in a corner that wasn't occupied with beer pong. The floor had been tacky and made gross sounds every time he'd moved, but he can still recall the slick feel of Connor's mouth and the way Dylan had nipped at his jaw before getting tangled up in Connor again.

Essay. Conclusion. Fuck, Mitch should have thought this one through.

He's got everything done but the second to last paragraph when he hears a knock, and he tries to swallow down his nerves. It's just Connor and Dylan, but that isn't as comforting as it should be.

"Hey," he says when he answers the door. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, which is dumb because it's his _best friends_ standing there. They all fit together, make outs or not, and he doesn't think he's ever felt this awkward around them.

"Hey," Connor says, and he looks a little flushed but it's hard to tell with the shitty lights in Mitch's apartment. "We grabbed you a coffee."

Mitch snags it, grateful for the distraction. "Oh, thank god." Connor still looks a little on edge, so Mitch guesses he can ditch the idea that he might not remember the last half of the party. Dylan pushes past them before it can get weird.

"The line was crazy long, and _I'm_ the one who got it for you, Connor's just stealing my praise," Dylan tells him. He's got his bag over his shoulder and nearly knocks Mitch's floor lamp over with it when he turns around. "Ready to go?"

"I'm packed, but I've got to finish up this essay," Mitch tells him. "Sorry, I thought I'd have it done by now, I just really wanted to..." Go to the party, his mind supplies, but he can't bring up the party without bringing up the way they'd hooked up, and he's not sure if Dylan remembers that or not, or it he should say something, or if that would make it awkward, or— "Yeah," he finishes lamely, turning back to his desk. "Anyways, it'll just take a little while longer."

"Cool," Dylan says, dropping his duffel on Mitch's bed like everything's normal, and Mitch feels himself relax. "You want some help?"

Mitch does.

Dylan edits the pages he's already got done while Connor goes over his citations, and by the time Mitch is hitting the submit button everything feels like it's fallen back into alignment. He kind of _does_ want to talk about the party, is the thing, but not if one of them thinks it was a mistake. Like, Mitch would be okay with that, but he's not sure he wants it spelled out. He's always thought Connor and Dylan could easily be a thing, and he doesn't know how he fits into that but he'd like to.

In any case, maybe starting that conversation before they have to be in a car together for eleven hours isn't the smartest move.

"Ready for the 'I' states?" he asks instead, stretching out his back. Connor makes a face when it pops. "Iowa, Illinois, Indiana?"

"I think you're missing one," Connor tells him, picking up his own bag and then Mitch's.

Dylan shrugs. "He's close enough. I call shotgun!"

"You can't call shotgun, you can't even see the car," Connor says as Mitch grabs his shoes and does one last check around the room to see if he's forgotten anything. He flips off the lights and makes sure the door is locked, since his roommate is probably still out with whoever he'd gone home with last night, and falls into step with Dylan as Connor leads them downstairs.

"Sure I can, I just did," Dylan is saying, and Mitch is hit with a sudden desire to have it all stay like this forever, the three of them in the closing span of time before they graduate and get flung to different parts of the country. Connor's off to a paid internship at a big firm, and Dylan's doing a year of service, and Mitch is interviewing for jobs, and it's not that he wants them to be in college forever. Just, being close wouldn't be too much to ask, he doesn't think.

"I'm not going to be much help if I don't get some sleep, so if Connor wants to drive you can get shotgun. Not," Mitch interrupts as Dylan pumps his fist, "because that's correct shotgun-calling etiquette." He tosses his keys at Connor when he opens up his hand for them, and can't help but feel pleased when they're all in his car. Dylan curls up in the passenger's seat with the blanket that he'd taken with him for some reason, and Connor is screwing up Mitch's mirrors, and Mitch thinks a road trip to Indiana isn't the worst way he could spend his spring break.

***

Mitch sleeps for most of the first leg, which feels kind of like a shitty thing to do when they're not going to be all together for much longer, but he's tired. Dylan fiddles with the radio until he finds some alien conspirist, and Mitch nods off to the sounds of the host and a caller arguing about the moon landing and how NASA is a CIA front, or maybe the Kremlin, he's not sure.

When he wakes up, with a crick in his neck from leaning his head back, Connor and Dylan are still in the same spots and it's a couple of hours later. Dylan's got his feet up, but at least his shoes are off. He's probably leaving sock prints on the inside of the windshield, though.

"You know, you're not supposed to put your feet on the dash," Mitch says, voice croaky from sleep. "I read a story one time where a woman got in an accident and her airbag deployed, and the next thing she knew she was staring at her own sole."

"Her foot sole or like, her soul-soul?" Dylan asks, but he puts his feet down as he's talking.

"Why would it be her soul-soul?" Connor says, putting on his turn signal to pass a battered baby-blue pickup that's barely going fifty. "And if she died and saw her soul, how could she tell someone about it?"

"I don't know, it could have been one of those ESP publications," Dylan says, shrugging. He turns around to look at Mitch like he's waiting for an answer, and Mitch stares at him until he cracks and starts laughing.

"I see you guys skipped to the punch-drunk part of the trip without me," he says. "You want me to drive for a while?"

"Please," Connor says, and Dylan flips them both off, still laughing.

***

Mitch likes driving, even on the highway. The endless stretch of road and barren fields is soothing, and Connor and Dylan are enough to keep him from getting bored. When they get hungry for dinner, Mitch takes the exit for the world's largest truck stop since he's never been before. He usually doesn't have a reason to go driving through Iowa, after all, which. Largest truck stop in the world and it's in Iowa? He guesses it had to be somewhere.

They split up inside, Connor wandering down to see what's in the buffet area and Dylan getting caught up reading the sayings on mugs in a spinning rack. There's a convenience-type store that opens up into the main area, and Mitch heads over to grab some candy for the rest of the trip. They've got some Easter stuff out already, and Nerds ropes, and—

"Crickets?" Mitch says out loud. When he picks up the box he can tell that it's not a brand name. There are crickets—actual dead crickets—rattling around behind the plastic window.

"Those are always a hit," the guy behind the counter says, and Mitch can't tell if he's joking or not.

"Do you sell any?" Mitch asks, shaking the box lightly to watch the crickets slide around. It's oddly fascinating, in a gross way. He kind of wants to see what one tastes like, but the idea of having to touch it's spiky legs with his tongue is mildly horrifying.

"Yeah, we do a pretty good business with them," the guy says with a shrug. "Not sure how many people are repeat buyers, but it's something different."

Mitch ends up buying a handful of candy bars and a box of original flavored crickets. So, just dried crickets, he guesses. He'd been tempted by a mealworm sucker, but even he has limits.

They all converge at the edge of the food court after a couple more minutes, because there's only so much you can look at in the world's largest truck stop, no matter the size.

"I've got to use the bathroom," Connor says while Mitch is trying to decide if he should do Wendy's or Pizza Hut. "Get me whatever you do, I'll be back in a minute."

Dylan and Mitch settle on a conjoined Pizza Hut and Taco Bell, and Mitch gets two personal pizzas and some breadsticks while Dylan goes after a bean burrito, despite the fact that they're all going to be stuck in the car together for a couple hundred more miles. Mitch would get Connor something from the Jamba Juice, or whatever it is at the other side of the meal court, but the line is pretty long and he doesn't feel like waiting.

"Hey, can you grab this?" Dylan asks. "I want to see if there's anything Hanny might like."

"Still on your quest to win Jack's boyfriend's heart?" Mitch asks, checking the number again on the receipt so he doesn't have to look at Dylan when he says it.

"Exactly," Dylan replies, and wanders over to the store Mitch had been in. Mitch doesn't know what he's thinking about getting him that Hanny could want, but he hopes it's suitably tacky.

He goes back to his phone and opens the group text that Jack is in, which has apparently been blowing up about the Boston Harbor, for some reason. He can't actually tell what it's all about, but there are a lot of the "monkey covering its eyes" emojis, so it must have been good. He's typing out his own string of emojis when he hears, "Mitchell!"

Mitch looks up to find Dylan waving at him. He must have been trying to get Mitch's attention for a while if he's resorted to calling him by his full name.

"Did you see these?" Dylan asks, loud enough to carry. Mitch knows even before he sees what he's holding that he's waving the crickets around. An elderly couple sitting on that side of the seating area is giving them both dirty looks. "They've got barbecue flavor," Dylan continues, oblivious. "Think we should get some for Connor?"

"Six thirteen," the employee behind the counter calls, and Mitch grabs it.

"Put those back and come eat your food," he says, feeling like his mother, and Dylan makes a face at him but comes over to the table that Mitch has claimed.

"That would have been hilarious," Dylan sighs, slumping into the chair across from Mitch and grabbing for his burrito. "You're no fun."

"No," Mitch says, rolling his eyes as he dumps a handful of napkins on the table. "I just already got some."

Dylan's eyes light up, and Mitch can't help but grin.

***

When Connor comes back and opens up the box for his pizza to find crickets on the side, he looks so grossed out that Mitch laughs hard enough that his eyes start watering. Dylan doesn't help, because every time it feels like Mitch is winding down, Dylan mimes Connor's horror and that sets Mitch off again.

"Alright, alright," Connor grouses, giving Mitch the dirtiest look, which loses some of its power as he pushes his pizza away slightly. "I just want to remind you that it's a long way to Indiana and I could leave you two behind at any time, so have fun walking back to campus, assholes."

"I mean, it's my car," Mitch reminds him, taking a bite of his own, mercifully cricket-free pizza. "But you're welcome to try. Dylan and I could take you."

Connor mutters something under his breath at that, but he does pull off a slice of his pizza and takes a cautious bite, like they could have done something else to his food while he was gone.

They eat in relative silence while the truck stop bustles on around them. There's a surprising amount of traffic, but that could be due to the time. It's getting close to dinner, and Mitch can see how a bunch of different fast food options in the same place would be a draw.

"It looks like there's a storm tracking towards us," Dylan tells them, fiddling with his phone.

"Bad?" Connor asks. He's avoiding the piece of pizza that had been closest to the crickets, even though Dylan hadn't actually put them so that they were touching. Mitch feels kind of bad, but not bad enough to eat it for him. He pushes his last couple of breadsticks closer, instead.

When Dylan shows them his phone, there's a wall of red making its way across Illinois in the time lapse video.

"Maybe it'll miss us," Mitch says doubtfully. It would probably miss them if they took a detour through, like, Missouri.

"I hope so," Dylan says, balling up the paper from his burrito. "I hate driving in the rain."

Connor finishes the rest of Mitch's breadsticks, and Dylan rechecks their route, and then it's time to go. "Hey, you didn't eat your crickets," Dylan tells Connor cheerfully when they're throwing away their trash. "Wouldn't want to accidentally leave those behind."

Connor sticks out his leg to trip Dylan, which almost works so he has to grab him to keep from dumping him into a display.

"You're so graceful, you should give lessons," Mitch tells Dylan before hightailing it for the exit before Dylan can try tripping him as well.

***

The grass is green against the oncoming storm front—the kind of green that means spring is almost here, despite the flurries and hail and whatever else the last edge of winter is going to throw at them. It's another twenty minutes before the wind really starts to pick up, and by that time it's dark enough that the opposite lane is a steady stream of headlights. The temperature is dropping outside, and Mitch can feel it even in the car. The semi ahead of them sways over the line and back as a gust buffets it, and Mitch tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

Dylan and Connor have gotten in some sort of half-hearted argument about Connor's feet for some reason, but Mitch supposes it's better than the cricket debate. Connor's feet _are_ pretty fucking weird.

"I bet you have a condition or something," Dylan is saying when Mitch tunes in. "Maybe you could get a disease named after you."

"That sounds terrible, and my feet aren't that much colder than yours," Connor protests, to which Mitch and Dylan say, "Yes they are," simultaneously.

"Connor, your feet turn purple sometimes when it's cold enough," Mitch says, eying the way a speed limit sign is wobbling back and forth on its post as they drive by. "They, like, _exude_ cold."

"I just have bad circulation," Connor mutters, and Mitch exchanges a look with Dylan in the rearview.

"I think that's the definition of cold feet," Dylan tells him, leaning over the console. "You should get electric socks or something. Or those heating pads for your feet."

"How would electric socks even work?" Connor asks. "What if you got them wet or something, would you get electrocuted?"

"I don't know, does it have to have a plug or something? Or would the socks insulate you somehow."

Mitch had only taken the first class of electricity and magnetism before dropping it for the art of Zen, but he's pretty sure he's the most qualified one to answer that question with a firm no.

They drive in silence for a while longer as the radio keeps playing. Mitch thinks they must have turned the back speakers off when he was sleeping and not turned them back on properly, because the sound is a little odd.

"Why don't you have a car with a bench seat," Dylan finally asks, and Mitch has a sudden vision of what the three of them all pressed together would look like. "It's boring back here. I want to be where the action is."

"You're literally a foot and a half away," Mitch tells him. Less if you count the way he's got his elbows braced against each seat. It's kind of nice, but Mitch isn't telling him that.

"And I have longer legs," Dylan continues. "So I should always get the front."

Connor snorts. "You do not."

The ensuing debate lasts until Mitch finds them a gas station and pulls in just as the rain lets loose.

"Shit," Connor says, looking at the distance between the overhang and the convenience store. "I was going to go to the bathroom."

"I can't believe you have to pee again already," Dylan says, unbuckling his seatbelt and not even pretending that he isn't going to poach Connor's seat the minute he's out of it. "What were you drinking?"

"Be nice to me or I won't bring you back any candy," Connor warns, and Dylan gives him his best 'who, me?' look before Connor pops the door and makes a run for it. Mitch gets out as well to start pumping.

"Do you think we should just stay somewhere for the night?" Dylan asks, stealing the passenger's seat. He keeps the door open and his feet on the cement as the numbers on the pump tick up. "We've still got four hours to get to Indianapolis. And then we have to get to Jack's place, so add another forty-five minutes on."

Mitch considers it, but he really doesn't want to spend the money if he can help it. It's late enough that it's really starting to get dark, helped along by the storm, but he thinks they can make it in one piece.

"We'll stop if we need to, but I'm still good to drive," he tells Dylan. They listen to the rain pounding on top of the overhang until the nozzle clunks, and then Mitch fishes out his credit card to pay.

***

It's raining harder by the time they've gotten resituated and Dylan has successfully defended his shotgun privileges to Connor. They're back on the highway, though it's slow going. The storm doesn't seem to be letting up, and Mitch has the windshield wipers going as fast as they can, which might have been a mistake.

"Fuck," he says, flipping the knob down a setting and then back up when he really can't see. The windshield wiper on the passenger's side has stopped working and is stuck halfway through its arc while the other one goes at double time. Dylan reaches forward and smacks the glass, but that doesn't do anything.

"Do you think we can get it working again, or do we need an auto parts store or something?" Mitch asks. "Or like a really big Walmart, or—"

A car comes out of nowhere from the on-ramp, going way too fast for the weather, and the driver lays on the horn when Mitch swerves to avoid it. Connor swears, and Mitch has got a death-grip on the steering wheel, his heart going as fast as the remaining windshield wiper. The rain isn't letting up, and he's thinking now that deciding to push on was a really dumb idea.

"Take the exit," Dylan says, twisted towards him. "You okay?" His phone is in his lap, and Mitch doesn't know if the instruction is because he found a place that sells windshield wipers already, or if Mitch just looks that bad. Mitch nods, because he's the one driving and he can't pull over on the side of the highway like he wants to, not without having someone rear-end them.

The next exit isn't that far, and he takes it carefully, follows the mostly deserted road until he decides to pull off in the grass on the shoulder instead of wait for a parking lot.

"Jesus fuck, who gave that asshole a license," Mitch finally says when he puts the car in park. On second thought, he turns the engine off too, his hand shaking on the keys.

"We're okay," Dylan says. "That guy shouldn't have been on the road, they're going to kill someone."

Mitch nods, but the thought doesn't make him feel better.

"I'll drive," Connor tell him, resting a hand on Mitch's shoulder while Mitch takes a couple of deep breaths. "Okay? Come on, you can have the back."

"Okay," Mitch says, because that seems easier than fighting, and he doesn't really want to drive again right now.

Mitch maneuvers himself into the backseat by scrambling over the console, since he doesn't want to go out in the rain. It's not an easy move, but he manages without getting stuck or bumping his head on the roof or accidentally kicking Dylan in the face. The transition from the back seat to the driver's seat somehow looks easier for Connor, which is deeply unfair.

Dylan climbs back with him without comment, and it's only when he's halfway across the console that Mitch thinks to say, "No, you can stay up there, I'm fine."

"I wanted to stretch my legs out," Dylan tells him while Connor starts the car and readjusts the mirror. "That 'looking at your foot thing' isn't going to happen to me."

"Yeah, I bet," Mitch says, his mouth still dry, instead of pointing out that Dylan could have just pushed his seat back as far as it could go if he was after leg room. He can feel his armpits prickling with residual adrenaline, and he can't remember if he'd put on deodorant that morning, which would be just great.

"Everyone buckled up back there?" Connor asks, like he's a soccer dad, and Mitch wants to chirp him but he can't think of something to say.

Apparently Dylan doesn't have the same problem because he replies, "Ready for takeoff," and spreads his blanket over both of their legs. "See, I knew this would come in handy," Dylan tells him.

"It has its merits," Mitch admits. The blanket really is soft, even if it's got a weird burgundy and teal color pattern.

The tires spin in the mud and wet grass for a minute as Connor pulls back onto the road, and he turns the radio off when the station goes to commercials. It's weird driving like this, with the rain coming down in a sheet around them. The front windshield is a mess, and Mitch hopes Connor can see well enough to get them where they need to go.

When Dylan nudges his shoulder and grabs for his hand, Mitch instinctively tries to pull away. "I'm good," he protests, even though his heart rate is still returning to normal levels. "It just startled me, you don't have to hold my hand."

He sees Connor glance in the rearview at that, and feels himself flush. He tries to pull away from Dylan before it can get awkward, but Dylan just holds on tighter.

"My hand is cold, you're warming it up for me," he says, like that isn't the most ridiculous answer.

"Go stick it in front of the vent," Mitch tells him, but he stops fighting after that.

"Any hotels around here?" Connor asks.

Dylan almost drops his phone trying to unlock it, but he doesn't let go of Mitch. "There's a motel called Lover's Resort that could be a brothel, actually," he says, leaning forward to stick his head next to Connor's. "It looks like that's all there is unless you want to get back on the highway."

Connor shakes his head. "We're already here, we'll go check it out. It can't be too bad."

***

The motel has a sign out front, pink neon letters announcing Lover' Reso with "vacancy" flashing below. It looks like a reject from some movie about a prostitute with a heart of gold, but the building itself doesn't seem like it's going to fall down around their heads if they get a room. The lot is mostly empty, so Connor pulls into a spot close to the sidewalk.

"You should go get us a room," Connor says, twisting around in his seat to look at Dylan. "I think the office is to the left."

"I'm keeping Mitch company," Dylan protests. The rain hasn't let up any, and Mitch doesn't envy whoever has to go outside and wander around until they find the office. "You should go, you're the one who was driving."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Connor asks. "You're the one who put crickets on my pizza."

"I can get us a room," Mitch protests, kicking the blanket off and reluctantly letting go of Dylan's hand. "I haven't been traumatized or anything."

Connor and Dylan exchange a glance. "I'll go," Connor finally says, "but I'm getting first shower tomorrow. Wish me luck," and then he's got his seatbelt unbuckled and the door open before Mitch can argue.

It's not quiet in the car, what with the rain hammering away at the roof, but there's a bubble of silence. Mitch doesn't know if he's supposed to break it or not, so he plays with the edge of Dylan's blanket before Dylan scoots up next to him and tucks the blanket over both of their shoulders.

Connor comes jogging back five minutes later, the collar of his jacket pulled up over his head. He scrambles into the front seat and slams the door shut. "Grab your stuff," he says, dangling a key with a worn orange tag. "We're on the second floor, room 206. I think the rain is letting up a bit."

'A bit' is relative, Mitch thinks as he runs toward the motel, splashing through a puddle that's deep enough to qualify as some sort of sinkhole. The stairs are slippery when he reaches them, so he grabs at the peeling handrail and starts climbing, ending up in front of 206 when he gets to the landing. Water is dripping from the roof and onto the metal walkway in thin streams, and it sounds like something a new-age band would put in the background of one of their songs.

"Come on, it's freezing out here," Dylan says, bouncing in place as Connor tries to fit the key in the lock. He's wrapped up in his blanket, though, wearing it like a cape, so Mitch thinks he's doing okay. When Mitch shuffles closer to him, Dylan drapes himself over his back, digging his pointy chin into the meat of Mitch's shoulder and tucking a corner of the blanket over his chest.

"Hey, thanks, that really helped," Mitch tells him, teeth starting to chatter.

"I could always go keep Connor warm," Dylan warns, but he doesn't move away.

After an eternity of fumbling, Connor announces, "Got it!" He shoves at the door when it gets stuck partway open, and then Dylan is pushing Mitch in, their bags getting caught in the doorway when they both try to squeeze through at the same time.

Inside, the decor is surprisingly tame considering what Mitch had been imagining at a place called Lover's Resort. The wallpaper is red and gold, like a porny Gryffindor set, but there aren't any hearts or condoms sitting on the end table between the two beds. The carpet is a weird pink color that Mitch's mom would probably call coral, and there's a TV and a tiny microwave. It'll do for the night.

"They did have pay by the hour," Connor tells them as he dumps his duffle on top of the red comforter on the closest bed. "I got us a full night, though, it was cheaper."

"I'll pay you back later," Mitch promises, shutting the door behind him. That makes it quieter, but not by much.

Dylan drops his bag on the TV stand and Mitch sets his on top. "So, who's sleeping where?" Dylan asks, pressing water out of his hair and shaking his hands off when he can't dry them on his clothes. "Because your feet are like ice cubes," he points at Connor, "you snore," Mitch, "and you couldn't pay me enough to sleep on the floor."

Mitch looks over at the beds, which are more like twins than queens, and shrugs.

"We'll push them together," Connor suggests. "And then we'll all have to deal with you kicking in the middle of the night instead."

"Hey, I only do that when I'm dreaming," Dylan says, "whereas your feet are like the devil's icepicks all the time." Still, he's moving over to one of the beds like he's getting ready to move it and take Connor's suggestion.

"Bathroom," Mitch says, instead of watching or helping, and it's not running away if he really does have to go.

The sink and tub are both the same coral color as the carpet, which also extends to the bathroom, and Mitch resolves to keep his shoes on if he has to pee again. He stares in mild horror at the rust rings in the tub before shaking himself off and going to wash his hands. The soap is lilac, and he keeps the water running long past the point he actually needs to.

He's going to share a bed with his two best friends, who he made out with less than twenty-four hours ago, and like. Someone has to bring this up, right? Now would definitely be the time for them to get everything figured out.

Still, it doesn't feel urgent in the way Mitch thinks it probably should. Connor and Dylan are good together, and whether Mitch gets to kiss them when they're all sober or not, they're still his best friends. It's not like they're going to fall apart over this. They're solid, even in a pay-by-the-hour motel in Illinois.

Mitch texts Jack to let him know they won't be getting in tonight, and by the time he gets back Connor and Dylan have pulled the beds out from the wall and shoved them together to make a mega-bed. There are old indentations in the carpet from the legs, but even without that Mitch would still have been able to tell where they'd been before from the patches of carpet that are brighter pink but dustier.

"Gross," he says, looking at a giant dust bunny before stepping around to the foot of the bed and sitting down. "Alright, do we have anything to eat, because near-death experiences really make me hungry."

***

With all of their food pooled together, they've got a Snicker's bar, a Milky Way, a pack of spearmint gum that's half gone, a sad looking apple, a couple of lint-covered cough drops, and half of a banana muffin that Dylan had stolen from the dining hall and wrapped in a napkin. And the box of crickets, but Mitch isn't sure if they should be counting that as food or not.

"Well," Connor says, looking over their haul. "Do you think this place has a vending machine?"

"It has to," Dylan says, digging around in his wallet for cash. "Maybe by the ice machine?"

"How much do you want to bet that it sells condoms as well," Mitch asks. It's only after the words exit his mouth that he realizes how that might sound, bringing up condoms when they've just made one giant bed. He feels himself start to flush, but before he can find a way to remedy the situation, Dylan cuts in.

"I'm not taking that bet," he says, shaking his head. His ears look a little redder than normal, but that could just be because of the cold.

It turns out that the vending machine does sell condoms, at least according to Dylan. It also sells Cheetos, cinnamon buns, and Sour Patch Kids, which Connor immediately starts cherry-picking for the red ones.

Mitch loses the rock-paper-scissors war they have to determine who gets the middle of the bed, and thus the inches-wide gap where the two mattresses don't meet, and climbs on with what little dignity he has left. They're fifteen minutes into a made-for-TV movie about a boy learning the true meaning of family—which they've all been heckling—when the program cuts over to a weather alert.

The woman on the screen has just finished talking about severe thunderstorms and has moved on to the possibility of tornadoes in another part of the state, when Dylan says, "Hey, so that party was something, right?" causing Mitch to choke on a Sour Patch Kid.

"Dylan!" Connor says, smacking Mitch on the back when he sits up.

"What?" Dylan says, spreading his arms wide from where he's lying on the bed. "We could _die_ here, in the middle of nowhere, are we really not talking about it? They'd have to use dental records to figure out who was who. I don't want my family to mourn at the wrong grave."

"Because a tornado a hundred miles away is going to crush us into an unrecognizable mass?" Connor asks. "I think it'll just fling us around a bit. They'll be able to identify your body."

"A bit?" Dylan says, propping himself up on one elbow and leaning all the way across Mitch to poke his finger in Connor's face. Apparently tornados are more important then hooking up with your best friends at a party, which. Okay. "One time a tornado picked up a house and it ended up a hundred and thirty miles away. There's no 'a bit' about it."

Mitch stares at him. He's pretty sure Connor is doing the same thing. "Do I want to know how you know that?" Mitch asks instead of going back to the party thing.

"I watch the Discovery channel," says Dylan, dropping back down to the bed. The mattress shifts with his weight, and Mitch is pretty sure the gap he's lying in extends a bit.

"Well, if you're worried about it, you could always go sleep in the tub," Connor tells him. "I mean, I think there's something growing in it, but at least death by mold sounds slower?"

"What? No," Dylan whines, throwing an arm over Mitch like he's the only thing that can save him from the prospect of dangerous spores. "Is there really? I was going to take a shower in the morning."

"I mean, I don't know, I didn't see any mold," Mitch lies. "Why don't you go check?"

Dylan eyes him suspiciously from his side of the nice, flat bed. "I think I'm good."

The rain lessens slightly, but it's still pouring out there. The window rattles every time the wind blows, but Connor is a solid presence at Mitch's side, and Dylan's arm is warm against Mitch's side. Mitch is just about to say something—the party, the kissing, the... _whatever_ —when Dylan starts fidgeting and rubbing his feet against the covers.

"What are you doing?" Connor asks. "I can feel you moving all the way over here, you're going to make me sick."

"My socks are still wet," Dylan says, sounding sheepish. He finally brings a foot up and takes off his sock, then repeats the move and stretches back out, throwing his feet over Mitch's legs. "There, done."

Connor makes a face that Mitch thinks is only partly feigned and waves a hand in front of his face. "Mind warning us next time?"

"About what, this?" Dylan asks, squirming around so he can wave his feet at Connor. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Stop, stop," Mitch laughs, pushing Dylan's feet out of his face before he can get kicked. "What is wrong with you?"

"You know, if we left him out in the rain we could each have a bed," Connor tells Mitch, lowering his voice like Dylan won't be able to hear them from six inches away.

"But then we wouldn't get a chance to be all threesome-y," Dylan says, and Mitch thinks it's a good thing that one of them is at least brave enough to bring it up.

"I thought we weren't talking about it," Mitch says, since he's curious. His heart is beating faster now, and he'd been fine with bringing this up when he was in the bathroom, but actually doing it is another story.

"What, and die with this still hanging around? This is how ghosts get started," Dylan tells him.

"You're not going to die," Connor says, reaching over Mitch to poke him in the side. Dylan kicks Mitch in the shin, which Mitch doesn't think is quite fair since he wasn't the one who did it.

"I mean, it was new and we were all kind of wasted, but it was good, right?" Connor continues, turning his head to look at Mitch better. His palm is warm when he curls it around Mitch's side, a distracting weight. "We could do it again if you wanted, see where it goes? Like, friends or boyfriends or whatever. I mean, long distance would have to be a thing, but—"

Connor's starting to babble, but he had Mitch at long-distance. Mitch looks over at Dylan, who kicks him, lightly this time, with his admittedly damp foot and nods vigorously.

"Stop talking," Mitch says, and when Connor's mouth snaps shut he pulls him in by the back of his neck and kisses him.

It's not like it was at the party. There's no house music, for instance, and instead of vodka Connor tastes like the red Sour Patch Kids he's been eating, and on a whole this kiss isn't as messy as their first one was. Still, it's pretty great, and Mitch feels something inside him shiver with the knowledge that he gets to do this, that he's _allowed_ to do this. Dylan is running a hand up and down his chest, and it's as close to perfect as Mitch can imagine, until Dylan tugs on his arm and crawls on top of both of them in a tangle of limbs. Then it gets even better.

Mitch thinks Dylan knees Connor somewhere judging by the indignant noise he makes, but he's heavy and pointy and wonderful on top of Mitch. He gets a hand in Mitch's hair, and Mitch grabs for Connor's hand when Dylan kisses him.

They trade kisses like that for a while, the three of them pressed together while the rain starts tapering off. Eventually Connor says, "We should stop," shifting his hips away from Mitch. "I don't want to make it through that storm only to be laid low by some shower mold."

"I'll risk it if you will," Mitch says, but his heart's not in it. They'll have to get up early tomorrow if they want to make it to Indianapolis in time to catch Jack's presentation, but he kisses Connor's mouth, then the side of Dylan's neck before he settles back down.

"We should go to bed," he says, reaching up to run his fingers through Dylan's hair. The movie is still going in the background, but Mitch has been tuning it out. He thinks maybe they should talk about this some more, but it's late and he's content to leave it until morning. "Is it gross if I don't brush my teeth? I don't really want to move."

"Only if you brush them in the morning," Dylan tells him. He makes no move to get up and brush his own teeth, and neither does Connor. When Mitch figures out that's because they don't want to give up their spots on the bed and have to lie on the gap, he starts laughing silently, punch-drunk, until Connor is moaning about being sick again.

"You guys are the worst," Mitch tells them, but he gets up to turn off the TV and the lights anyway. When he crawls back in the middle, he steals Connor's extra pillow as payback, and they arrange themselves under the covers in a jumble of limbs. Connor's feet are freezing against his shins, and Dylan starts wuffling softly in Mitch's ear as he's falling asleep, and Mitch thinks the beds might actually be sliding further apart somehow. Still, as the wind howls outside, Mitch can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be.


End file.
